When You Think You're Alone
by Kyriana
Summary: What happened in those first few hours after The Kiss? Transport yourself back to the finale of ER's season 8, when all possibilities still awaited Carter and Abby. A tale of suspense and romance complete in four chapters.
1. Hospitality Suite

**When You Think You're Alone**

_**A post-Season 8 Carby romantic thrill ride.**_

_**Chapter One: Hospitality Suite**_

_**Rating:** _PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue are.

_**Summary:** _Transport yourself back to the finale of season 8, when all possibilities awaited Carter and Abby, and we all knew that the long-awaited first kiss would lead to many more. Here's one take on what could have happened in those first few hours after The Kiss. They had so much to say to each other—but it's hard to confide when you're busy being afraid.

**_Author's Note:_** I hope you enjoy it—but if there's been too much "water under the bridge" since then for you, it's OK to say so. It's fun hearing from you either way. Doctors, nurses, med students may notice that I have taken liberties with the science, though if I did my job well enough, you won't notice.

**_Dedication:_** For my Carby friends—new and old. Enjo_y._

Anyone watching them would have thought they were 12 years old . . .

_She's still standing here. That's a good sign. _Carter surprised even himself by stealing a kiss from Abby. He had been waiting to do that for so long. Though why he chose today—when they were on the brink of the biggest public health crisis in 50 years—he'd never know. He just couldn't help himself. She stood before him—a little nervous, a little frightened—yet focused on making him comfortable by pressing a cool compress to his burning neck. She looked to him for reassurance. "Tell me we're going to be okay," she pleaded, her eyes round, brow furrowed, mouth pouting. He wanted to comfort her, but at the same time, he wanted to find out what her lips tasted like.

_Eyes open? Eyes closed? Where do I put my hands?_ For Abby, it felt like the first time she'd ever been kissed. She fought to keep her composure and finally understood what they meant by "swooning." His kiss took her by surprise, but nothing made her feel safer than hearing him say they were going to be okay, followed by his arms on her waist and his mouth on her lips. She was a little flustered and didn't know how to respond. But as it turned out, there was no time to wonder.

Gallant knocked on the window and spoke through the glass: "Dr. Carter, the little boy's sats are dropping. We can hear the alarms out here."

They ripped themselves from their embrace and raced for the doors to the adjacent room where 10-year-old Adam lay.

Adam's father worked for the U.S. State Department, and the family recently spent time in Central Africa. Not long after returning, their 5-year-old daughter developed flu-like symptoms. Within a week, she was overcome by a faceful of white pustules that Carter thought could only be one thing—smallpox. Trouble was, even though the disease killed millions over the course of history, everyone thought it had been eradicated in the Seventies.

The 5-year-old did not survive, and now her 10-year-old brother was dying, too.

"Stay out!" Carter and Abby shouted in unison to Gallant, who attempted to follow them into the room with the child.

Inside, Adam's parents were sobbing.

"Help him, somebody!!" his mother cried.

Carter burst in without a mask and Abby followed. The trach tube Carter put in Adam's throat to help him breathe was clogged with blood and impacted by the encroaching pustules inside the boy's windpipe.

"Abby, help me clear it, damn it," he said desperately.

Earlier she had watched him perform the tracheotomy on the little boy in a daring surgical procedure that left her in awe of his abilities as a doctor. At that moment, Abby thought Carter was the closest thing to Superman that she'd ever meet. Right there in ER, he cut open the boy's trachea and was confronted with a sea of blood pebbled with pox. He ordered her to remove his mask and protective glasses to clear his vision. Risking his own exposure to save the child's life, Carter managed to insert the tube. And when air started flowing into the boy's lungs, Abby thought her own heart would burst right out of her chest. His effort was heroic, and she could not take her eyes off him.

Now Abby suctioned the fluid from the trach tube, but it filled faster than she could pull it out. She turned the suction up high, and the fluids splashed onto them both. And that's when Carter realized she was unprotected.

"Where's your mask?"

"You needed help!" she responded.

"Abby, get a mask now! "

"You, too!"

"I'm trying to save this kid's life."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

He glared at her with an anger she'd rarely seen in him.

Only it wasn't anger—it was fear.

_Beep! Beep! Buzz! Brrrring!_ It seemed like every alarm in the room was sounding and Carter and Abby could not keep up with them. It didn't matter, though. Adam's heart, deprived of oxygen, arrested.

The boy was now the second fatality from a strain of orthopox that _resembled_ smallpox at best—and at worst was the insidious disease itself. But how could that be? No one in the U.S. had seen smallpox since 1949. The thought that there may be people who could engineer the virus and use it for their own agenda was in the forefront of everyone's mind.

Now all eyes were on the ER at Chicago's County General Hospital, where the two children succumbed to the virulent strain. Steps needed to be taken.

They all waited while the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and other public health entities planned the next move. In Kerry's absence, Susan ordered Abby and Carter to remain secluded from the rest of the ER as they had the most direct exposure to the sick children. Chen and Pratt, who developed fevers, were already quarantined, as they treated these same children when they were brought to the ER with flu-like symptoms a week prior. Stan, an alcoholic "frequent flyer" in the ER, was quarantined with them since he was present the previous week when the children were first brought in.

But they weren't the only ones affected. Today, the ER was bustling with patients—all of whom were now at risk to catch or spread a virus that could potentially kill millions if unchecked. There were the lawyers burned at the feet during a corporate bonding exercise, a group of senior citizens in a bus accident and the epileptic driver who caused it, a young man in a high-speed MVA, and an assortment of uncomfortable people with colds and flu. They included a mute 4-year-old little John Doe whom Chen was treating, and behind him were a young pregnant woman in labor and a girl in a schoolyard skateboard accident.

Behind closed doors, Abby and Carter waited for the next steps.

It was more than an hour when the gentleman from the CDC approached their room. He instructed them via hand signals to listen on the speakerphone on the wall. Susan and Luka followed but hung back.

"Dr. Carter, we still don't know what we are dealing with here," the CDC official began. "It may be smallpox, it may be something else. Our records show that the incubation for an orthopox strain like this is a week, and it looks like direct exposure to bodily fluids is the critical factor. We are going to evacuate the hospital to protect the patient population."

"How're you going to do that?" Abby asked.

"After vaccinating the entire ER, we'll let these people go home. The parents of the deceased children show no sign of disease and are way beyond the incubation period, so they, too, will be allowed to leave. Doctors Chen and Pratt, who treated the two youngsters a week ago when they presented with flu-like symptoms, show no signs of orthopox in their blood and will be allowed to leave—as will the gentleman who was treated here near the children a week ago for alcohol intoxication."

"Sounds like you've got everything under control," Carter said.

"Well, not exactly." The CDC man looked at Susan and Luka and then turned to Carter. "That leaves you and Miss Lockhart. You've both been exposed to the deceased—direct contact with bodily fluids in both cases. You're below the incubation period. You need to stay here—for the sake of the community."

"Stay?" Abby asked.

Susan jumped in. "You're being quarantined in the ER for a week. I'm sorry you guys."

Abby and Carter made a leap for the door that separated them from the CDC official.

"Quarantined?" Abby couldn't believe her ears.

"A week?" Carter shrieked.

"You'll be left with the emergency generator only," the official explained, looking down at his notes. "The building cannot remain fully powered without a maintenance staff—state regulations. The telephone switching system runs on the main electrical current, but it should be offloaded to the emergency generator overnight, which means you may have sporadic telephone service for a few hours. A doctor from the CDC will stay on call for you at our headquarters in Schaumburg 24/7 in case you become si—. In case you have any questions."

He looked up from his notes: "I realize this is awkward—male and female co-workers. I could have my people set up two separate quarantine sectors if you'd like."

"No, that's okay," Carter and Abby recited in unison. Susan smirked.

"I'd rather have the company," Abby explained to the man.

"Yes, ma'am. It's your call," the official said. He went back to his notes: "On the seventh day, you'll be visited by a CDC employee, who'll draw your blood, which will be tested for the presence of an orthopox virus. If there's nothing, you'll be free to go."

"And if there's something—"Abby began to ask.

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," the man interrupted. "If you don't have any other questions, we'll begin the vaccination and evacuation."

Carter and Abby shook their heads "no."

"Okay, then." He went to drop the receiver but changed his mind. "Oh, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you two how critical this is. If we are dealing with the likes of smallpox, we could have a disaster of immeasurable proportion on our hands. Do not attempt to leave. Do not let anyone in. Two dead kids are enough. It could be two million before you know it."

He went to hang up the phone, but before he could, Abby asked a bit sarcastically, "What if there's a fire?"

"Stop, drop, and roll," he said. He hung up the phone without another word and walked away.

Somehow, they didn't think he was kidding.

"I'm sorry you guys," Susan yelled through the glass.

Luka caught Abby's eye and gave her a nod of confidence. As he walked away, he momentarily rested the back of his hand against the glass in a message to her of solidarity and strength. Carter caught her appreciation of the gesture.

One by one, the patients and staff left the premises—the lawyers, the car accident victim, and all the others.

When the last patient was removed, electricity was turned to the emergency generator, which fed the exam rooms but didn't do much to power the hallways. The air remained off.

Carter and Abby were left alone in an eerie silence.

With everyone gone, they pushed through the double doors of their confinement area and began to stroll the dim halls of the ER. Every movement they made echoed through the empty building.

"I need a cigarette," she announced when they reached the Admit Desk.

"How about a magazine?" he suggested instead.

"It'll do."

He reached under the desk and offered her a choice of the _New England Journal of Medicine_ or _Entertainment Weekly_. Abby went Hollywood.

Drained by the day's events, she took her hair down from its tight clip and let it glide around her shoulders. She hopped up on a gurney in the long hallway, lay down on her side, rested her head in her hand, and perused the magazine by the light of the nearby trauma room and the glow of an exit sign.

Carter, on the other hand, found himself invigorated by their strange predicament—or perhaps it was the company. Like a child locked in a candy store, he explored draws, bins, cracks, and crevices that he never before took time to inspect.

"Hey, look what somebody left out in chairs," he said gleefully a little while later. He held up a well-worn red skateboard. He got on and proceeded to glide past her.

Still flipping through the magazine, she said matter of factly: "Don't crack your head open. I never made it to my neurology rotation before I got kicked out of med school."

He glided up and down the hall, trying his skill at a variety of skateboard tricks—on one leg, backward, with a handstand. She pretended not to notice him, but she'd occasionally peek out the corner of her eye and smile to herself at his boyish antics.

But the next time he sailed past her, he got her full attention: "I'm sorry about before," he said and continued rolling down the hall.

On his way back, she inquired, "What?"

"For kissing you like that. I'm sorry," he said on the following trip.

She stopped turning the pages and sat up.

"You're sorry you kissed me?"

He stopped short when he reached her by leaning on the back of the skateboard until it popped out from under him. He stood in front of her and picked up the board, embracing it like a shield in front of his heart.

"No. I'm not sorry I kissed you. I'm sorry that it wasn't the best time to do it. Why? Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you sorry that I kissed you?"

"Did I seem sorry?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Is that a _yes_ or a _no_?"

She was cool and unflinching on the outside, _but on the inside . . . _

He shook his head at her inability to answer. "I never know what you're thinking, Abby—ever. " He let his frustration show through.

"That goes double." _Two can play at this game._

"You want to know what I'm thinking?" he asked her, his head bobbing up and down inquisitively.

"Yes."

"You_ really_ want to know?"

"_Yes_, I _really_ want to know."

"Because if you _really_ want to know I'll tell you."

"Carter!"

"Okay." He stared at her and took a nervous deep breath. "I'm thinking that since I met you, I've wanted to . . . be with you."

His candor stunned her.

"For two years, I have thought about nothing else but you," he continued. "When I wake up in the morning, I'm thinking about you. When I'm working during the day, I'm always looking for you, and when I go to bed at night . . ."

He paused, staring at her.

"Yes . . . ?" she said, with a little nervous anticipation.

"When I go to bed at night . . ."

"What?"

"When I go to bed at night, I think that you'd still rather be with Luka, so what's the point?"

He dropped the skateboard to the floor and propelled himself down the corridor.

She sighed.

"Luka and I haven't been together since last year, you know," she yelled over the echoing rumble of the skateboard wheels. When he reached the end of the dim hallway he jumped off the board. She hopped off the gurney. They stood looking at each other in silence from opposite ends of the corridor.

She broke the stalemate. "And for the record, I wasn't sorry." She grabbed her magazine off the gurney and retreated into one of the exam rooms.

If she'd waited around, she would have seen the tiny smile that crept across his face.

They occupied themselves separately for quite a while, each finding their own place to wash away the day's perspiration.

It was about 10 o'clock at night when Carter rolled the bed from Trauma 1 next to the one in Trauma 2 and positioned the two parallel to each other but a few feet away. She got the clean sheets from the supply closet and set about making them up. And when they were done, there was nothing left to do but go to sleep.

She jumped up on one bed, he on the other. They sat facing each other with their stocking feet dangling off the sides like new bunkmates at sleep-away camp.

Though they felt like the last two people on earth, they were keenly aware of the bigger issue that surrounded them. "Why would someone do this? Why would someone spread a virus?" Abby asked, finally allowing herself to speculate on the potential tragedy that was unfolding.

"We don't know _anyone_ did _anything_," Carter rationalized. "The family was living in Central Africa for a year. God knows what viruses lay dormant in the jungle."

She couldn't decide if his cool-headedness was comforting or maddening.

"But if it's smallpox, and smallpox has been eradicated, then the only way—"

"I don't think they think it is smallpox. Smallpox is airborne, I don't think they'd have let everyone go so fast . . ."

"But whatever it is, it killed two children—quickly."

She was right, but he didn't want to let his mind go there. He didn't want to think about the danger they were probably in, and he didn't want her to worry more than she already was.

"So if someone did this," she wondered aloud, "didn't they realize that little kids could die?"

"Those kids didn't have to die today."

"That's what I mean. It's so senseless—"

"No, I mean those kids didn't have to die today because I should have . . . done something."

His comment took Abby by surprise. She looked at him. His head drooped between his shoulders, he gripped the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth with frustration and disappointment.

"What? No!" she said. "If some group did this, then _they_ killed them, not you. And like you said, it's more likely they just picked it up somewhere and there was nothing _anyone_ could do."

He didn't look at her.

"If either one of us is responsible, then it's me. I should have gotten to them sooner."

She could tell his mind was busy replaying the moments leading up to each child's death.

"Carter, are you all right?"

She slid off her bed, stepped in front of his dangling legs, and rested her hands on his knees.

"Look, it was amazing what you did today—how you tried to save those kids. I was there, remember? I saw what you did. For God's sake, you trached that boy here in the ER without a surgeon. It was . . . brave."

She cupped his cheek in her hand, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I mean it."

Her touch alone filled him with confidence and shook the self-doubt from him. _Oh, that face!, he thought. _When she looked at him like that, he found it hard to control himself. But he always did—until now.

Carter stood up very slowly, reached for her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and kissed her very softly, tentatively. Neither of them was sure where they stood, and the doubt was palpable in the room. But when he felt her lips part slightly and press back against his, he relaxed, slid his fingers into her silky hair, and pulled her mouth closer. He nudged her gently backward toward her bed, and when she felt the thin mattress behind her, she hopped up onto it, and he followed.

They lay on her narrow bed sharing the deep kisses they'd suppressed for ages. He'd waited two long years, and despite the uncertain circumstances of this strange day and the unromantic surroundings of Trauma 2, he wanted to get as close to her as two people can be. Tonight.

But over their breathing, Abby thought she heard something.

"Carter, did you hear that?"

"Nope," he said, busily kissing her mouth.

Abby heard a noise again.

"Carter, you didn't _hear_ that??"

If she was going to use her mouth for talking, he may as well move his lips to her ear or her neck . . . or elsewhere.

_Clang!_

Carter didn't hear it. Well . . . actually, he did. However, he pretended not to because he was too engrossed in what he was feeling, and where his fingers were touching, and whom his lips were kissing.

_CRASH!_

This time there was no denying it. A loud sound came from outside the swinging doors and down the hall in the area of the Admit Desk.

Sobered by the noise, Carter got up from the bed and tried to peek out the glass windows.

"I don't think we're alone," Abby whispered.

_Next_

_Knock, Knock. Who's There?_


	2. Knock, Knock Who's There?

**When You Think You're Alone**

_**A post-Season-8 Carby romantic thrill ride.**_

**CHAPTER 2: KNOCK, KNOCK. WHO'S THERE?  
_Subtitle: Define 'Alone'_**

_**Rating:** _PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue . . . you know.

**_Summary:_** Chapter Two finds Carter and Abby quarantined in the hospital but wondering whether they are indeed alone. At the same time, they struggle to get closer. Old arguments die hard.

**_Author's Note:_ **Before my post-season-10 piece _Written in the River_, this was a favorite chapter of my Carby friends. Not sure I would agree with the comparison, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Warning: Lots of dialogue that's "water under the bridge" in this one. Note the season 8 time period. I'm happy to read your thoughts.

_**8/21 ETA:** Thank you to the reviewer who noticed that an unproofed draft of this chapter had been posted accidentally during all the technical glitches. The updated version is below. It is 99.99 the same as originally posted except for corrections and slight action changes during the "Picnic at the Admit Desk" and "Huddled Behind the Door" scenes._

**CHAPTER 2: KNOCK, KNOCK. WHO'S THERE?**

_**Subtitle: Define 'Alone'**_

"I don't see anything," Carter said as he peeked through the glass of the swinging doors that separated them from the empty, cavernous hospital.

He pushed one door open and looked out. "Nope, nothing," he confirmed.

"Well, I know I heard something." Abby jumped off the bed and pushed by him out into the dim hallway. She headed down the corridor, and Carter followed. But the farther they got from their refuge in Trauma 2, the slower they moved, until they were just inching their way toward the Admit Desk. They were struck by the silence that surrounded them. Without the melodies of monitors, the hospital felt like nothing more than a warehouse. They were navigating a sea of stillness that got darker and deeper with each step. Without thinking, Abby reached for Carter's hand.

"What's that?" His voice broke through the silence and made her jump.

He squeezed her hand for reassurance but pointed to a piece of cloth on the floor in front of a partly open door.

"It's the linen supply closet," Abby clarified—as if they each didn't pass it one hundred times a day. He let go of her hand, approached the door, and nudged it open wider with his toe. Even in the darkness, he could see that several items had fallen from the shelves onto the floor.

"How'd that happen?" he wondered.

Abby approached and looked inside the dark closet. "I don't know. I took bed linens for us a little while ago . . . "

"You may have knocked something over or left a pile at the edge without realizing," Carter concluded.

"I guess I could have. It's so dark in there."

"I'm sure that's what happened. See there's nothing to worry about."

Carter closed the door, and they headed back to Trauma 2.

"I wasn't worried," Abby said defensively.

"Yes, you were—but don't be. I'm here to protect you," he teased, flexing his bicep muscles.

"Protect me? From what? The towels?" And with that she laughed and sped back toward the room.

Carter didn't run after her. His fragile ego was hurt by her off-hand comment—though it was intended to do nothing more than instigate a playful romp that would lead them back to her bed. But Carter's old wounds healed slowly.

"Why? Would you feel safer with someone else—?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Like, say . . . Luka?"

"What? I don't need anybody to protect me."

"I'm sure Luka could. Then if there were an intruder, he could bash his head—"

"Are you trying to be funny?" she interrupted angrily. "Because if you think it was funny to have someone try to mug us—"

"I'm just saying, maybe you'd rather be here with someone else—"

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew how childish he sounded.

Back in the room, they retreated to their own beds. Abby clenched her teeth to control her anger. "How could you say that? Not five minutes ago you were . . . I was . . . we were . . ."

His jealous comments hurt her, and he regretted making them.

"Forget it. Maybe you'd be more comfortable if I were Susan," she fired back angrily. And she turned her back to him.

They lay silently, a chasm between them once again.

"I'm sorry," he said softly a little while later, hoping she was awake enough to hear.

She was. She rolled toward him. "I didn't deserve all that."

"No, you didn't."

He struggled to think of something he could say that would bring them back to where they were before—he needed to touch her again.

Carter confounded Abby—just a short while ago, he couldn't get enough of her. Soon after, he was picking a fight. She didn't understand his feelings about Luka. It all seemed so long ago to her. Now she just wanted to lie close to him again and show him that she was worth the wait.

It was close to midnight when Abby's thoughts were interrupted by Carter, who was lying on his back and busily drumming a tune on his stomach.

"Why are you still awake?" she asked.

"I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast. What about you?"

"I need a cigarette, but I'm hungry, too."

He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and slipped into his shoes. He peeled the thin blanket from her body and called a truce in favor of a midnight snack.

Like the rest of the hospital, the cafeteria was eerily quiet. As a condition of their quarantine, the "prisoners" were given carte blanche to enjoy anything the cafeteria offered—though the emergency generators barely powered any of the oversized appliances. They toured the humongous pantry and saw rows and rows of giant cans and huge sacks containing all sorts of not-so-delicious foods.

"Wow, I've never seen a bigger collection of tapioca pudding," Abby observed.

Carter came around a corner hoisting a three-gallon can in each arm.

"How much creamed corn do you think I can bench press?" he asked.

"Yuck. More than you can eat, I hope."

They headed toward the giant refrigerator. Abby grabbed a plastic tub of chicken salad and a box of crackers. But Carter's mouth watered at the sight of a long wedge of watermelon. He grabbed a knife for the fruit, and she threw some crackers on a plate. They had everything they needed—except for a cigarette to quell Abby's craving.

In the dim stairwell, Carter asked, "Doesn't this remind you of that movie—you know the one? The man, the woman, and the little boy are all alone in that huge abandoned hotel? Jack Nicholson played the guy . . . " Carter struggled to remember the title.

Abby helped him out: "_The Shining_."

"Yeah, _The Shining_."

"And this feels like that to you?"

"A little."

"Doesn't he try to kill them at the end?"

"Yes, but I don't remember why."

"I bet he just needed a cigarette."

They picnicked at the Admit Desk. Abby jumped up on the counter, and Carter plopped down in a rolling chair. He let out a groan.

"Does your back hurt?" she asked.

"Don't tell anyone it was a creamed corn accident."

"Okay, but it'll cost you."

She hesitated but then decided to ask a question that had been on her mind.

"Do you remember what it felt like—when you were stabbed?"

He closed his eyes and nodded yes.

"Were you scared?"

For a brief moment, he considered putting on an air of bravado. But his need to talk to her, confide in her, be close to her was stronger.

"Very scared," Carter confessed.

"What about the drugs? When did you know you were hooked?"

"At first I took them for the pain," he remembered. "Then it was the _fear_ of the pain. After a while, it was just about the _fear_."

She understood, but her heart broke for him just a little as he said the words.

Now it was his turn: "When you saw me that day—injecting the fentanyl—why did you tell?"

"You needed help. I saw it in your face."

"But you could have gone about your business."

"I could have. But you were a good doctor, and you were in pain. And there was help out there. I knew that better than anybody." She looked at him from the corner of her eye. "You were mad at me though, admit it."

"That day, yes. But when I came back and saw you I was . . . thankful."

He slowly rolled his chair over to where she sat on the counter and looked up at her.

"You . . . You helped me through the roughest time in my life."

His eyes met hers with an intensity that jolted Abby and caused her fingers to crush the crackerful of chicken salad she was about to bite into. They laughed. Carter grabbed a paper napkin and took her hand. And as he wiped the salad from her fingers, he dared to speak from his heart: "Those first few months when I got back from Atlanta, I wanted your advice, I wanted your support, I wanted your company. Pretty soon, I just . . . wanted _you_."

His words made her cheeks warm. But when she didn't react right away, he retreated and spun his chair in a nervous circle. "But you were with Luka so . . . that's the breaks."

She didn't owe him an explanation about Luka, but she wanted to close the chasm between them once and for all.

"Luka's a good man, Carter," she said while wiping chicken salad onto a new cracker and licking the rest off a plastic knife.

"He's a good doctor, I'll give you that," he responded, unable to concede much more of a compliment to his perceived rival. "Look, I watched him go home with you for a year, and—"

He shook his head remembering what it felt like to see them leave together, night after night, arm in arm, when he had wanted her so badly.

"He was good-looking, and he flattered me at a time when I didn't feel so good about myself. But I don't think he cared about me much at the beginning," she admitted.

Carter raised his eyebrows in surprise, and she nodded her head in affirmation. It was hard to talk about, but it was worth it—for him.

"Luka had his own demons to deal with, and there was no room for me. I guess I knew that all along."

He stared at her face, not understanding why any man wouldn't cherish her.

"Luka's great, but the whole time we were together, I felt . . . alone. Toward the end, when I knew we weren't right for each other, something happened to him, and he started to cling to me more. We clung to each other really, much longer than we should have. I guess I felt safe with him—but not safe the way you're thinking," she added.

"Then how?" he wondered.

This was more than Abby planned to say. She hopped off the counter and announced, "I'm tired. Why don't we clean this up in the morning?"

She headed down the hall, but he followed her. "How, Abby?" His eyes begged to hear more.

She stopped and took a deep breath. She turned back toward him with her arms folded across her chest. She stared at her feet and said: "It was safe with Luka because as long as I was with him . . . I didn't have to think about . . . how I felt about . . . you."

She turned on her heel and headed back to Trauma 2. He stood frozen, not knowing how to react. She stopped at the trauma room doors and looked back at him.

"Well," she said, "are you coming?" She smiled and disappeared into the room.

She was like a rollercoaster ride to him—sometimes dangerous, always exciting. He couldn't get enough of her.

When he got to the room, she was lying on her bed. She slid over slightly, inviting him to join her. He walked over to her, and she reached up and slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the narrow mattress with her until his body half covered hers. They kissed, both of them excited by the very first stirrings of requited love. She ran her fingers through his hair. He softly kissed her neck. She relaxed and giggled at the ticklish feeling it gave her. "Let's try this again," he said. Only their clothes stood in the way, so he reached under her shirt . . .

And then . . .

Once more, their whispers were overpowered by noises outside the trauma room, their throaty giggles drowned by distant sounds, their soft moans broken by the sound of—_music_.

_Desperate for changing  
Starving for truth  
Closer to where I started  
Chasing after you_

They both heard it, opened their eyes mid-kiss, and lay frozen in place.

_I'm falling even more in love with you  
Letting go of all I've held onto  
I'm standing here until you make me move  
I'm hanging by a moment here with you_

His heart skipped, and he could feel Abby's pulse racing. She was frightened.

_Forgetting all I'm lacking  
Completely incomplete  
I'll take your invitation  
You take all of me_

He pulled himself away from her. She could feel his tension.

"Stay here," he said. He left her on the bed and went to push open the door. It was louder.

_Now I'm falling even more in love with you  
Letting go of all I've held onto  
I'm standing here until you make me move  
I'm hanging by a moment here with you_

"Hello? HELLO! Is anybody here? The ER is closed. Do you need help?" Carter yelled down the empty corridor.

_I'm living for the only thing I know  
I'm running and I'm not quite sure where to go  
And I don't know what I'm diving into  
Just hanging by a moment here with you_

No answer. Now he was getting angry. "What the—?" He started out the door.

_There is nothing else to lose  
There is nothing else to find  
There is nothing in the world  
That could change my mind  
There is nothing else..._

"Carter!" she whispered sharply. "Don't go out there!"

He looked back at her and then pushed the door all the way open and headed down the hall. She jumped off the bed and followed him rather than be left alone in the trauma room.

_Desperate for changing  
Starving for truth  
I'm closer to where I started  
Chasing after you_

For the second time that night, they made the tense walk down the dim hallway—this time searching for the source of the ghostly music. She was scared but wanted to be with him; he was scared but wanted to be strong for her. They kept going not knowing what they'd find but feeling helpless to do anything else but investigate.

_I'm falling even more in love with you  
Letting go of all I've held onto  
I'm standing here until you make me move  
I'm hanging by a moment here with you_

As they got closer to the Admit Desk, they could tell the music emanated from the on-call room, where each of them had napped at one point or another during an exhausting shift.

_I'm living for the only thing I know  
I'm running and not quite sure where to go  
I don't know what I'm diving into  
Just hanging by a moment here with you_

They stood in front of the closed door. He waved her back a few steps, and she obeyed. He turned the knob and pushed open the door and was assaulted by a wall of sound.

_Just hanging by a moment  
Hanging by a moment...  
Hanging by a moment...  
Hanging by a moment here with you._

The room was dark, yet they could see it was empty and that the music burst forth from the clock/radio. Carter approached, slapped the "off" button, and they were again in silence.

"Pratt," Abby said from the doorway. "He did a double yesterday. I think he was on again at one in the morning. He probably crashed here."

Carter hit the "Wake" button. It was set for 1:00 am. He looked at his watch: It was 1:04.

"It must have been Pratt," he agreed. They exhaled with relief, walked out of the room, and closed the door behind them. They smiled nervously knowing they each had a bad case of the jitters. Abby turned to go back to the room, but Carter reached for her hand, swung her around, and pulled her closer.

"You'll do anything to get out of mak—"

But as she turned to him, Abby stopped dead in her tracks, her face frozen, her eyes fixed at a spot behind him.

"John—" she said pointing to where they had shared a midnight snack just a short while ago.

The plate of crackers was empty; the fruit was gone.

"Are you sure we didn't finish it all?" he whispered, his eyes desperately scanning the area.

"I'm sure I didn't. My stomach was feeling queasy." She said softly, moving closer to him.

"Where is the knife?" he said to her.

"What?"

"The knife I was using, where is it?" His voice was tense.

At the same moment, they realized it was gone, too.

"Abby, go back to the room," he said as he lunged for the phone.

"What?"

There was no dial tone.

"Go back to the room!" he repeated. He pressed extension after extension on the console—no tone.

He moved to the phone on the wall near the waiting room.

"Abby, go back."

She wouldn't move.

He eyed the computer.

"You know someone who checks their e-mail in the middle of the night?" she said.

"Do you have your cell phone?" he asked her.

"I have it, but it's broken. Doesn't make calls."

"Then why do you have it?"

"I just use it for the clock." He rolled his eyes.

"Look, my cell's in my lab coat in my locker. I'm gonna go get it. You go back to the room, and I'll meet you there."

"No!"

"Abby—"

"Not without you!"

He looked in her eyes. They begged to be with him. She was too scared to be alone.

"Okay, stay close to me."

Carter pushed open the door to the dark lounge. "Hello?" It was quiet. He took her hand. "Hello?"

"How are you going to see your combination?" she whispered.

"I leave it on the last number."

"I'll remember that."

He opened the locker, and grabbed his lab coat.

"Let's go."

They ran quietly down the hall toward Trauma 2.

"Wait," he stopped. "Those double doors don't lock. Follow me." He led them to Exam 3 instead, which locked from the inside and housed a tiny bathroom.

"Get down and don't turn on the light."

Carter locked the door, sat down behind it on the cold linoleum floor, and Abby sat next to him. He dialed 9-1-1, and as it rang he put his arm around her.

"I'm John Carter, and I'm calling from County General. It's been evacuated, and two of us are under state-ordered quarantine."

"_We know the situation, Dr. Carter,"_ the dispatcher said._ "Is this a medical emergency?"_

"Uh, no, but—"

"_Then I am supposed to put you through to Central Command."_

"Okay, but—"

"_Captain Gordon."_ A voice answered at the other end.

"Captain, I'm John Carter, and I'm calling from County General. It's been evacuated and—"

"_Yes, Dr. Carter. Everything okay?"_

"Captain, there's an intruder here in the ER."

"_An intruder? Not likely, Dr. Carter. There's a police perimeter set up around the hospital about 500 yards from where you are now."_

"Yes, but we're hearing noises, and some of our things have gone missing—"

"_Dr. Carter, it would be impossible for anyone to enter without us seeing."_

Carter raised his voice in frustration. "Well, perhaps—"

"Sssshhhhh," Abby reminded.

"Well, perhaps someone was left in here during the evacuation," Carter said more softly, though he seethed with impatience.

"_Dr. Carter, my officers supervised the evacuation under the orders of the CDC. I assure you, every person's been accounted for."_

"Listen, Captain, this is an empty hospital with a huge pharmacy and millions of dollars in street value of narcotics. Don't you think there's reason for somebody to want to break in here?"

"_Look, Doc, we're all on pins and needles about this smallpox thing. Trust me, no one is on the property. But if it makes you feel better, I'll pull one of our units off the blockade and have them examine the premises for signs of entry, okay?"_

"Yes, thanks. And could you tell whoever's in charge that we are still without telephone service? I'm calling on a cell phone: 3-1-2-5-5-5-1-2-9-9."

"_Yes, sir. We'll call if we see anything, but take my advice Doc, get some sleep."_

Carter closed the phone and filled Abby in.

"They're going to send a car to check."

"I hope you mean a getaway car."

"Nope." He had to chuckle to release the tension. He dropped his cell phone in his pocket, leaving him free to wrap both of his arms around her and pull her close. "We just have to wait though," he said and kissed her on the head.

She closed her eyes against his chest, and they stayed huddled together waiting for the police to do their check.

"Maybe they'll bring me a cigarette," she whispered.

"They're not allowed to get close to us."

"What if I wave a dollar out the window?"

"Ssssshhhh," he smiled, burying his lips in her hair to mute his laughter.

Exam 3 had a small, high window to the street. The translucent glazing prevented any clear view in or out. But it made it easier for them to hear the patrol car wheels slowly crackling over the gravel as it cruised around the building. They could see the reflection of the headlights moving past the window until the patrol car finally headed away.

His cell phone rang. He flipped it open with one thumb rather than remove his arms from around her.

"_All's secure, Dr. Carter. I promise you. You've probably misplaced your items. Call us again if you hear anything."_

He clicked off the phone and reported to Abby.

"They say the place is secure."

"But—"

"We'll stay in here until morning, and then we'll check things out. Then I'll get the police on the phone again—or the CDC or the FBI or our congressman, if I have to."

"Friend of the family?"

"My godfather, actually."

"Figures."

She pulled closer to him. "Maybe the knife just dropped on the floor, do you think?"

"Maybe, but we'll stay locked here just the same."

Carter removed his arms from around her, stood up, and checked the security of the door lock. Then he reached down for Abby's hand and helped her up.

"Why don't we get some sleep?" he whispered and tugged her toward one of the beds in the room.

She hopped up on the mattress and slipped her shoes off with her toes. He sat next to her and leaned over to kiss her neck. She pulled away.

"John—"

"Are you okay? Scared? The police didn't see anything . . . we probably dropped the knife like you said. . . and we're safe in here right now."

Abby was tired, she was getting a headache, and she didn't know what the next few hours would bring. Still, she wanted to feel him close to her in the darkness. But first there was something she needed to know . . .

"Before we . . . I just want . . . I need you to explain something to me." Her eyes squinted with doubt or skepticism or defensiveness. Or all of the above.

"Explain what—?" He looked confused.

"Last year . . . I thought something would happen with us and next thing I know . . . you're dating Susan."

"Look, you and Luka—"

"I don't want to talk about Luka anymore." She struggled to keep her voice down. "You were wrong about Luka—you were wrong about Luka and me and Nicole and staying at his apartment and encouraging me to drink—you were wrong about everything with me and Luka. But what about Susan?"

She was frustrated, and she wanted her lingering questions answered before she opened herself up to him again.

"Susan is great, but we never . . . I told you, it was about friendship and nothing more. What did you think?"

"What was I supposed to think? I thought . . ."

She couldn't look at him.

"I thought . . . you didn't want me anymore." He watched her toy with her fingernails.

He slipped off the bed and stood in front of her and took her hands in his. "Look at me, Abby."

She did. Her eyes were soft with sweetness but round with trepidation.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you."

She looked in his eyes searching for sincerity and found it easily. She wanted to tell him how she felt, but nerves and fear kept the words inside.

Instead, she touched his lips with her fingertips, inviting him to kiss her. He did—more deeply, more passionately than he had all day. And when he needed more of her, he boldly reached down, grabbed hold of her white knit shirt, and slid it over her head. He lifted himself up onto her bed, his mouth still joined to her lips, and gently guided her down until she was lying on her back and he was over her. He hooked his thumb in the strap of her bra and moved the thin satin strand down off her shoulder, lower and lower, until it took with it the lace that covered her breast, revealing it to him. He looked at her, kissed the side of her face, and whispered in her ear, "You're so beautiful."

She'd heard that before from men in the throes of passion—either when they were anxious for release or afterward to ensure there'd be a "next time." Even Luka said it to her when they shared a bed. But when Carter said it just then, he meant it. He made her feel beautiful, and it touched her deeply. She felt a tear forming in her eye, and she struggled to keep it from slipping down her face so he wouldn't see it. He moved to kiss her lips again, and his cheek grazed her forehead.

It burned.

"You're hot . . ." He put his lips to her head.

"I am?"

"I don't mean _HOT_ hot," he corrected, sitting up abruptly.

"So, I'm _not_ hot?" she flirted, her voice husky with passion.

He jumped off the bed and raised her strap to cover her breast and pulled a thin blanket from the end of the bed over her.

"I mean fever hot . . . feverish . . . I think you have a fever." He kept trying awkwardly to make his point.

His sudden move shook her into lucidity.

"Do you feel okay?" he asked her.

"Well, I was feeling pretty good a moment ago," she said, pretending to be annoyed at yet another interruption of their intimacy.

Okay, so she wasn't pretending.

He ignored her and reached over to grab an electronic thermometer from a cart. He slipped it in her ear.

She sighed.

"102.4," he read a moment later.

He grabbed a stethoscope from his lab coat and listened to her breathing.

"I'm fine—" she tried to explain.

"Ssssshhh" he ordered.

"Carter, I'm fine."

"Sssssshhhh."

He listened carefully to her chest and then her back. He pulled down her lower lids to check the color of her eyes. And he gently pressed his fingers under her jaw to feel her glands.

"Are you sure, you're okay?"

"Yes, just tired. Maybe a little headache. It's _nothing_."

"Do we still keep Tylenol in here?" he said looking around as if it were the first time he was ever in the room.

"Non-narcotics are in the cabinet over there. Everything else is in the drug lockup."

He retrieved two capsules and handed them to her with a small cup of water from the little bathroom in the room. "Take these and get some sleep, okay?"

Maybe the fever made her brazen. She sat up on her elbows. "But I don't feel like sleeping," she flirted.

He had to remind himself for a moment that he was a man and not just a doctor. He had two years worth of caresses he hadn't used, two years of kisses to catch up on. But for now, he slipped his fingers in her hair and kissed her forehead—easing her head back down to the pillow. He tucked the thin blanket tightly around her, and stopped to look at her, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers.

"I'm sorry," she said, worried that she was disappointing him.

They'd waited this long, they'd wait a little longer, he thought. Clearly Abby wasn't well, and that's what concerned him now.

"Get some rest," he answered.

He lay down on the bed across from hers and watched her as she fell asleep. Her breathing was a little labored, her brow furrowed in some discomfort. Her soft brown hair flowed around her face but was tucked behind one ear so he could see the delicate bones of her cheek, her dainty lips, and her smooth skin, now flushed with fever.

Carter didn't feel himself drift off to sleep with his cell phone in his pocket. It was drained, too, and rapidly losing power.

_BEEP! BEEP!_ Several minutes later, his phone began to warn him that it was running out of energy.

_BEEP. BEEP. _He was fast asleep and couldn't hear the alarm.

_Beep, Beep._ The dying battery tried desperately to call to him again and again, each time a little softer, a little weaker.

_Beep._

_beep..._

Until it cut them off from the world, leaving them all alone, at 3:22 a.m.

_NEXT_

_Panic Room_


	3. Panic Room

**When You Think You're Alone**

_**A post-Season-8 Carby romantic thrill ride.**_

**CHAPTER THREE: PANIC ROOM**

_**Rating:** _PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue . . . you know.

**_Summary:_** Emotions bubble to the surface as Carter watches Abby grow ill and danger gets nearer.

**_Author's Note:_** Thank you again for leaving your comments behind. They certainly inspire me and help me gauge how well the story is coming across. And they just make me feel better about posting in the first place.

**CHAPTER THREE: PANIC ROOM**

Carter woke at 7:03 a.m. to the sound of Abby coughing in the tiny bathroom of Exam 3. It was that hard, irrepressible cough that only accompanies a violent purging of the digestive tract. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and waited for her to come out. When she emerged, he hardly recognized her. The overnight hours had taken a toll. Since he'd last seen her awake, her skin had turned pale, her eyes glazed, her hair matted with perspiration.

"Hey, why didn't you wake me?" he said to her.

"I think I just did."

Abby shuffled over to her bed and crawled on—first one knee, then the other—like she did when she was a child. He met her and pulled the covers over her and rested his hand on her head for just a moment before swinging into full doctor mode.

He grabbed an electronic thermometer, slipped it in her ear, and asked: "How long has that been going on?"

"An hour or two—I don't know. I feel like I've been in there all night."

"102.8," he read from the thermometer. "It's gone up a bit."

He put his stethoscope to her chest and then checked her eyes and glands as he did several hours before. He pulled the blanket away from her body, lifted her shirt slightly, and lowered her scrub pants somewhat to get access to her abdomen. Their eyes met as his fingertips made contact with her skin. His touch on her lower belly was gentle and intimate, and the warmth of his hands soothed her. She closed her eyes, rested her arms casually above her head, and let him feel her body.

"Does this hurt?" he said, pressing various spots on her stomach.

"No—I mean, yes. I have a stomach ache, okay?" Despite his careful touch, he located a number of painful spots, and soon she was uncomfortable.

"When was your last period?"

"Carter, please..."

"Any chance you could be pregnant?"

"No."

He was all business now but still had to work hard to suppress the little smile of satisfaction that her answer was "no." He covered her up again, and his hand instinctively reached for her forehead.

"I think 10 milligrams of compazine should calm that nausea, okay?"

She nodded in agreement and curled up in a ball while he went to set up her injection.

"Abby, where is it?"

"Top shelf, to the left of the analgesics."

"I only see 5 milligrams."

"Look in back for the 10."

"I don't see it."

"Do you actually work here?" she said and buried her head in the pillow.

"I got it."

He pulled open a drawer.

"I don't see any syringes."

"The other drawer."

"What about—"

"Alcohol wipes are here by the bed. Do you want me to stick it in my arm, too?"

"You're not too sick to be funny, are you?" he said as he returned to her bedside. "Except you should know that compazine is best given intramuscularly—in the buttock. Turn over."

"Carter!"

"Over." He gestured with the syringe full of medicine.

She obeyed. He moved her blanket once more and allowed her to slide her pants down slightly to reveal the smooth curve of her upper buttock. He sterilized a spot—rather leisurely, she thought—and injected her. Afterward, she quickly turned back over again.

He caught her eye and gave a nod of approval toward her derriere.

"Quiet," she chided.

The medication helped relax her, and he stood over her as she fell into a fever-induced sleep. He looked at the clock over their heads and realized it had been less than 24 hours since this ordeal began, though it felt much longer.

Yesterday started as a normal day—impossibly busy—but that was par for the course. Around mid-day, Michael Gallant brought to his attention the two youngsters in the waiting area with faces full of white pustules. From there it all happened so fast. He stepped forward to treat the children with Abby by his side. Next thing they knew, the two kids were being double-shrouded, smallpox was suspected, the ER was evacuated, and he and Abby were quarantined alone. And just when the strange circumstances provoked them to start sharing feelings, kiss for the first time, and touch each other the way they had in their dreams, they suddenly found themselves fearing for their safety—and now for her health.

Carter reached down and stroked Abby's hair while she slept and forced himself to acknowledge that both children who died of the pox first presented with flu-like symptoms—symptoms similar to hers.

Reluctantly, Carter walked over to the wall phone in the room, reached into his pocket for the number the CDC official gave him, and dialed. He was obligated to report that Abby was unwell. But like last night, the phone did not work.

"Damn!" he said, frustrated that they were still without telephone service. But he quickly stifled his exclamations so he wouldn't wake her.

While Abby slept, Carter began to check her body carefully for signs of white pustules. Her face was beautiful and delicate—and thankfully free of any marks. He could see that easily. But he had to gently move her hair to give him a better view of her neck. Her arms, ever so slightly tanned, showed no sign of pox. He put his finger in the neckline of her white knit shirt and stretched it from side to side to give him a view of her chest and shoulders. He couldn't help but glance at the subtle roundness of her breasts, though he rationalized that his looks were purely clinical. He moved the blanket from her lower body and slid the thin fabric of her scrub pants up each leg. Her calves were strong and thicker than he'd expected—probably from being on her feet all day. But he couldn't help but notice their shapeliness and the softness of her clean-shaven skin.

"What're you doing?" she asked. His touches woke her up.

"Checking you out."

"I can see that." She smiled.

"I'm looking for rash."

"You mean pox, don't you?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't see anything," he said, covering her up again. "How do you feel?"

"My stomach hurts," she said, adding, "You need to move out of the way." She struggled to throw off the covers and get up from the bed.

"Are you still nauseated?"

"No."

"Then what—"

"Move, _please,_" she said urgently. She started to get up from the bed and slipped back from dizziness.

"Let me help you."

"No, please leave me alone." She managed to slide off the bed and head for the restroom once again.

When she returned, she curled up on her side. She was even weaker than before, even more uncomfortable—and this time, scared.

"I guess I caught a stomach flu, huh?" Her eyes were wet, and her lower lip began to quiver. He stepped toward her to comfort her.

"Stay away from me, Carter," she sniffled.

"I can't." He moved closer. "Believe me, I've tried."

"I know you want to help, but you have to stay away—you can catch this," she said, trying to appeal to him.

His eyes were fixed on her.

"John, I mean it, stay away," she warned as he got within arm's length.

"I can't," he whispered again, his voice filled with emotion.

Frustration, fever, and fatigue overtook her, and tears began rolling down her face. "Why?"

"I don't know," he said when he reached her. He took her hand in one of his. With the other, he wiped tears from her cheeks. He kissed her on the temple and rested his forehead against her head for a moment. "I don't know," he said again, this time whispering it in her ear.

But he did know. He had fallen in love with her, and he knew it, and Susan saw it, and Luka sensed it. But had she?

Nothing in Carter's life prepared him for the feelings he would have for Abby. He had many women in his life before—but not one of them occupied his thoughts the way she did. Not one buried herself as deeply in his heart as she did. Not one would he have sacrificed himself for the way he would for her. Now if only she knew it.

He sat at the edge of her bed and held her hand as she nodded off to sleep again. But a sound outside their door got his attention and made her eyes pop open.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Their eyes bolted in the direction of the far end of the hall where they heard the whir of wheels approaching.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Their eyes swept across the room following the sound of the wheels as they got closer to the door.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

And their eyes kept following as the sound of the wheels passed them by.

"Carter—"

"Lie still," he told her. He went to the door and peeked through the slats of the blinds that covered the window.

"It sounded like that skateboard," he guessed.

"Or a supply cart," she offered.

"Or a _drug_ cart," he said, feeling confident he'd found the answer.

He reached for the knob.

"Carter, you can't go out there. Let them take what they want. What if they have a gun or—a knife?"

Carter tried to will away his sudden apprehension. His hand instinctively reached for his back and rubbed the site where he was stabbed more than two years before. In his head, he heard himself groan when the knife penetrated him. Like it was yesterday, he could see Lucy Knight, cheek to the floor, her punctured body convulsing with rough, shallow breaths.

But the frightening images of his past were nothing compared to the thought that he and Abby could be living for six more days in fear of noises outside their room. What if they couldn't get food or medicine or equipment he may need—for her? Courage overtook the fear, and he reached again for the knob.

"John wait!" she cried. "We're quarantined. What if you're incubating the virus? If—if they hurt you and then escape, they could spread the disease and kill a lot of people. Just call the police."

Abby was right.

He reached in his pocket for his cell phone. The tiny display screen was dark. Carter pressed the "on" button over and over again and began to breathe heavily.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The battery."

"What?"

"It's drained."

"Where's your charger?"

"Home."

"Home? You mean—"

He tossed the tiny gadget, now useless, against the wall. He looked at her apologetically.

"Well, what about the wall phone?" she asked.

"Still out. I checked while you were asleep."

She saw worry on his face and wanted to make him feel better.

"Carter, we're safe in here, and the phone will come on soon. It'll be okay."

He sat down on the bed opposite her and rested his face in his hands, feeling the weight of their predicament. He slapped his fist against his lap and said more to himself than to her: "Why did I let you come in there with me?"

"What?"

"When I first started treating those kids. I never should have let you in there with me—I never should have let you," he repeated to himself shaking his head.

"You couldn't have stopped me."

"I should have."

"Look, everyone was frightened—"

"I know. Why weren't you?"

"I was."

"So why did you come in with me?"

"Because I wanted to be there."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." She sighed loudly as if she were angry at him for making her say the words. "Because I wanted to be with _you_!"

She never failed to shock him. He got up from his bed, crossed over the narrow gap, and sat down on hers. "You did?"

She rolled over and turned her back to him. "What do you suppose that's all about?" she said, trying to lighten the conversation, fearing she'd already said too much.

He couldn't let the opportunity go by. He leaned his arm over her body and tilted his head to try to see her hidden face.

"I think . . . maybe . . . that's what they mean by . . . _love._"

She closed her eyes, curled up into a ball, and dug her face into the pillow. "Oh yeah? So now you think I love you, huh?"

"I think . . . maybe . . . we've loved each other for a while but didn't know it." She half expected him to reach around and kiss her—flu and all. But instead he got up from the bed.

She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes just enough to peek through her lashes and watch him walk away. Truth was, even though she was sick and terrified, she never felt less alone or more secure. And it was all because of him. And now he as much admitted that he loved her. Comforted by the thought, she relaxed and drifted off to sleep again.

By mid-day, Carter had nearly worn away the strip of linoleum flooring between their two beds with his constant pacing and frequent checking. By early afternoon, he was tired himself and closed his eyes for a few moments on the bed opposite hers. It was just a short time later that her whimpering awakened him.

When he opened his eyes, she was sitting up. Her lips were pale, her eyelids blue, her breathing shallow.

"I need to get up—now," she explained.

"I'll give you a basin—"

"The bathroom, please."

"Let me help." He stood by her.

"Leave me alone, okay?" She slid off the bed.

He waited outside the tiny bathroom. He could hear her faint sobs from the other side of the door. He tapped on it lightly with his knuckle.

"Abby, are you okay?"

He rested his palm on the door, desperate to make her feel better. "Abby—"

The door opened unexpectedly with his open hand still in the air. She was pale. Her pretty eyes were watery, and deep, dark circles encased them. Her lip was quivering, and her nose dripped above it.

"What is it?" he asked.

She wiped big tears from her eyes with the base of her palms. He took her face in both his hands. "What's wrong?"

"I saw blood . . . there was blood," she said.

She leaned her head against him. "John, I'm sick," she announced and cried into his T-shirt.

He pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her. "Ssssshhh. I know. Everything's going to be okay. Don't worry." He kissed her hair, and his hand caressed her face. Holding her so close, he wondered if she could feel how hard and fast his heart was beating. He helped her back to bed.

With little instruction this time, he found all the supplies he needed to start an I.V. for her. He kissed her on the forehead, found the vein in her arm, and set up a drip to replace all the fluids she was losing. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He took her hand.

"Want to play doctor?" he said and smiled down at her.

"Maybe later." She drifted off to sleep, too weak to acknowledge the joke.

Once her eyes closed, Carter's smile receded from his face and was replaced by a grave expression. He immediately set to work gathering near her bed as many supplies as he could—intubation tray, crash cart, a syringe with lidocaine—anything he could find in the room that he would need if she took a turn for the worse and needed resuscitation.

He took her temperature once more, and as he held the thermometer near her ear, he was shaken by the sound of running footsteps out in the hall.

"Take what you want, damn it, and get out of here!" He spoke to the air so as not to disturb her.

His fear was compressed into such a tight package of nerves that it emerged as anger. His hand shook as he continued to hold the thermometer to Abby's ear, and he struggled to keep it steady so as not to wake her. But if his shaking hand didn't, his gasp almost did when the display on the thermometer told him that her fever had soared to 104.1. He couldn't wait any longer. He needed to know what was wrong with her.

He soaked a cloth with cool water and placed it on her forehead. He strapped a strip of rubber above her elbow, tore open an alcohol wipe, and began plucking at a vein from which to draw her blood.

The coldness of the alcohol woke her.

"What are you doing?" she asked groggily.

"Ssssshhhh. I'm going to find out what's wrong with you." He grabbed a needle and a vial.

"Little pinch—," he warned.

She didn't even flinch.

"John, do you think I . . . caught it?" she asked softly with wide, sad eyes as they both watched her blood spill into the vial.

"No!" he answered hastily, almost shouting the word. The thought was too painful for him.

But her eyes read something else in his face.

"I don't know," he confessed softly. "Those kids had the flu bad enough for their parents to bring them to the ER. But I don't see any pustules on you, and it's only been 24 hours since you've been exposed."

When the vial was full, he removed the needle from her arm and gently put a band-aid on the spot. He rubbed it for a long moment. He stood up, kissed her forehead, and reassured her. "You're going to be okay. I promise. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"What are you going to do with that?" she said, referring to the container of her blood.

"I'm going to bring it to the lab, make a smear, and analyze it myself."

"What? No! Don't leave!" She struggled to get up from her pillow.

"Abby, I have to—," he said, pushing her shoulders back onto the bed.

"John, what if there's someone—?"

"Abby, you are going to have to get up and lock the door behind me. Can you do that?"

"I want to go with you."

"You can't. I don't know what's making you so sick. Stay here, please. Don't be scared."

"Aren't _you_ scared?"

Yes, he was—but not only of the intruder who seemed to be sharing their quarters, but of the fact that she was sick and getting sicker.

"Come on, be strong, okay?" He brushed the hair out of her eyes with his fingers and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "Please?" His eyes asked for her trust.

Abby reluctantly agreed. She reached up and put her arms around his neck. He hugged her tightly and helped move her legs off the bed and drag her I.V. over to the door. They listened carefully for sounds out in the hall and then opened the door, cringing as it squeaked. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, and he kissed her hair before walking out the door.

"It's okay. I'll be back in a few minutes. Go back to bed," he whispered.

She closed the door behind him, locked it, and crawled back onto the mattress to wait for him to return.

It was mid-day, but the underpowered interior hallways were as dark as ever. Carter clutched the vial of blood and walked lightly but swiftly toward the elevator.

_Bang!_

Carter turned in the direction of a door slam.

"Abby?"

There was no answer. Behind him the elevator doors opened. He swung around and stepped in with one foot—only there was no car, and Carter instantly felt himself teetering on the precipice of the deep, dark elevator shaft. He grabbed the frame with his fingertips and struggled to steady himself before leaning any farther into the shaft. They were not warned that the emergency generator did not sufficiently power the elevator. As a result, cars stopped randomly and rarely at their intended destination, they would learn later.

"Help!" Instinct made Carter call out, but he managed to steady himself and keep his balance without dropping the vial of blood. Once secure, he leaned against the frame and slid to his knees breathing heavily at the near miss. But he knew it wasn't safe to rest there, so he picked himself up and headed for the stairs with his heart beating hard and fast.

_Help!_

Abby heard him call out. Panic swept over her. "John? John!"

She ripped the tape from her arm and pulled out the I.V. tube it was meant to secure. She slid off the bed and headed for the door, wiping the drips of fluid and blood from the I.V. site with the bottom of her own shirt. She unlocked the door and swung it open. Dizzy and a little lightheaded, she looked for any sign of Carter. Up ahead, the double doors to Trauma 1 caught her attention as they swung back and forth.

"John?"

The swinging doors were still by the time she reached them, but through the glass she saw the interior double doors connecting Trauma 1 to Trauma 2 burst open. She hurried to the outside of Trauma 2 just in time to see the interior double doors connecting it to the suture room burst apart as well. She continued down the hall and peeked into the suture room. And there she saw—_nothing_. It was almost as if the doors were thrown open by themselves, one set after another. Abby's face grew warm and she had trouble catching her breath. That's all she would remember—just before she dropped to the floor.

Over in the lab, Carter went to work. It had been a long time since he had done laboratory research—not since medical school. So he armed himself with photographs from the many reference volumes on the shelves in the room. He moved quickly and quietly as he took several drops of her blood and secured them between two slides, all the time looking over his shoulder and listening for sounds of trouble. Taking aim with the most powerful microscope he could find, he took a deep breath and focused in on the sample, praying he would not find the characteristic brick-shaped pathogen of smallpox . . .

Maybe it was the much-needed I.V. fluids or the impromptu nap, but Abby awoke on the floor of the ER hall a little stronger. She gathered her wits about her, saw that Carter was nowhere in sight, and hurried back to the sanctuary of Exam 3. She entered the room, closed the door behind her, and locked it. She leaned her forehead against the back of the door and took deep breaths to both calm and re-energize herself.

_Swiiiiish!_

Her spine froze at the sound of a bed curtain being drawn quickly along its track behind her. "J-John?"

There was no answer. She didn't really expect one, as it quickly began to sink in that she'd made a perilous mistake by venturing out of the room.

Carter, on his way back, took the steps two at a time and landed in the ER just as Abby slammed the squeaky door to Exam 3.

"Abby?"

_Why would she open that door?_

"Abby!" He began to run toward the room.

Inside, Abby struggled to unlock the door to escape, but her fingers were numb with fear and wouldn't let her. Behind her, the intruder began slashing at the curtain with what appeared to be a knife. Frightened, she could do nothing but cover her head with her arms. But the knife fell from the intruder's hand and slid on the linoleum floor out from under the curtain toward her. Abby saw it from the corner of her eye and recognized it as the missing knife Carter used to slice the melon during their midnight snack. Without a thought, she moved to put her foot on it at the same time the intruder's hand emerged from under the curtain to retrieve the weapon. She thought to scream, but what she saw took the breath from her body and stole her voice. Out from under the curtain came a hand, a tiny hand—the hand of a child.

_Next_

_Conclusion: A Little Longer_


	4. A Little Longer

**When You Think You're Alone**

_**A post-Season-8 Carby romantic thrill ride.**_

**CHAPTER FOUR (Final Chapter): A LITTLE LONGER**

**_Rating:_** PG-13 with strong cautioning for romantic situations.

**_Disclaimer: _**The characters are not mine, but the story and dialogue . . . you know.

**_Summary:_ **Just when many mysteries are unfolding, Carter and Abby encounter a whole new set of challenges and learn that love can be the most terrifying emotion of all.

**_Author's Note:_ **Well, this is the last chapter of this piece—and it is by far the longest. I must apologize for that, but in exchange, I hope you'll find some solid, non-stop storytelling. Thanks so much for coming along on the journey, which I hope you found sometimes fun, often frightening, frequently emotional, but always romantic.

Please go ahead and communicate with me via the review button, my e-mail, or through message boards we may share. I've gotten to know some of you through your comments, and I can actually hear your words in my mind as I craft the pieces.

**CHAPTER FOUR (Final Chapter): A LITTLE LONGER**

"Abby! Abby, open up!" Carter shouted. He twisted the knob and pressed his body against the locked door to Exam 3 as if his will alone would force it open. He had just arrived back from the lab when he heard the door slam. Before he left, he made Abby lock herself in. Carter knew that only trouble would make her open the door, and now he was panicked.

"Abby!" he slammed his palm against it hard, desperate to get to her.

Inside, Abby watched as the hand of a small child came out from beneath the curtain and feebly felt the cold linoleum floor for the dropped weapon—the knife stolen from last night's picnic at the Admit Desk. Only Abby already had the knife in her hand. She reached up and swung the curtain out of the way. Startled, the owner of the tiny hand scurried back up on the bed, and suddenly she was face to face with a wide-eyed, terrified little boy.

He was very young, not long out of babyhood—four years old at the most. He had medium brown hair with warm copper highlights surrounding smooth, fair baby skin. His warm brown eyes were round and curious, and his small light eyebrows gave him an inquisitive look. His little denim pants and red T-shirt were lightly soiled, and all the Velcro clasps of his sneakers lay open.

Carter's desperate attempts to enter the room were frightening the already-scared child, so Abby went to the door and slowly unlocked it. And when she did, the boy stood up on the mattress in anticipation of danger.

Carter stepped back when he heard the lock's tumblers. Abby opened the door just wide enough to show her face. She reached out and touched his chest to warn him to calm down.

"We have company," she said.

"You pulled out your I.V.?" He could see blood droplets on her shirt from when she wiped her arm.

"Take it easy and just look, okay? Don't make any sudden moves."

She opened the door wider. Carter was confused, and his body language screamed that he was ready for a fight. But he brought his fist down slowly as the opening door revealed the tiny child standing on the bed.

"A kid?" he said, staring at the boy.

She nodded her head. "He must have been hiding the whole time." She turned her attention to the child. "Hi there," she said softly to him. "I'm Abby. What's your name?"

The wide-eyed boy just watched her.

"This is Dr. Car—. This is John." She changed her introduction so as not to frighten him more. "Can you tell us your name? Don't be afraid."

"I don't think he can," Carter said without taking his eyes off the boy. "I think this is Deb's little John Doe. He came in aphonic. She thought it could be PTSD, autism, hearing impairment. But I don't think she ever found out before everything happened."

"They left him in here during the evacuation? Oh my God," Abby whispered. "Somebody must be looking for him."

"Is anyone here with you, Little Guy?" Carter asked.

The boy shook his head no.

"Well, he heard you . . ." Abby observed.

"How'd he get in here?"

"I thought I heard you calling. I went out in the hall to look for you. I don't remember much after that."

"You don't remember?"

She tried to concentrate: "The doors—I remember seeing the doors swing open all the way from Trauma 1 to Sutures. Only, I couldn't see anyone. But now I understand. He's so tiny—"

"What do you mean you _'don't remember'_?"

"I don't know. I woke up on the floor."

"Abby, you lost consciousness? Come here." He looked in her eyes and touched her scalp. "Your head is bleeding."

The moment Carter turned his attention to Abby, the little boy jumped from the bed, crawled between their legs, and fled from the room.

"Don't let him run away!" Abby shouted and pushed Carter's hand away.

Carter went after him. "Come back, it's okay."

The scared little child ran down the hall as fast as he could, all the time looking back to see how close Carter was. Carter ran faster as he saw the child heading for the elevator where he knew the open door led only to an empty shaft.

"No! Stop! Stay away from the elevator!!"

"What is it?" Abby screamed.

"There's no car," Carter yelled, his heart pumping wildly. _"There's no CAR!"_

But the boy kept running while looking back at Carter. As he approached the elevator shaft, Carter's face went white, and his heart rose up to his throat.

"Nooooooo!!!!" Carter lunged for him and slid on his belly, but the boy was just out of reach. Abby screamed as the tiny boy disappeared into the darkness of the shaft.

Carter looked down into the hole, but Abby froze and couldn't bring herself to get any closer.

"I can't see anything! I need light! _Get me a flashlight!_"

Abby ran to the Admit Desk and fetched a flashlight from behind it. When she returned, Carter still lay on his stomach desperately trying to see the boy. He reached up and grabbed the light from her and held onto her arm for an extra moment.

"Do you feel okay? Can you help me?"

"Yes! Yes! Just _find_ him, Carter!" She covered her mouth with her hand and squeezed back the tears.

He aimed the flashlight down into the shaft and searched wildly before spotting something.

"Abby! Abby, it's okay—it's just a few feet!" He sounded jubilant. "Hey, are you all right, Little Guy?" he said into the hole.

Abby gathered the courage to look down into the shaft and saw the top of an elevator car that failed to reach the ER by 5 feet or so—maybe 6.

Carter handed Abby the flashlight and jumped down into the shaft onto the top of the car.

"I got you. Don't move, okay?" he said to the scared boy.

"Carter, don't touch him. If we touch him, he'll be contaminated, and we won't be able to get him out of here."

Abby was right.

"Get me a mask and gloves," he said. She did and brought back paper gowns as well—for both of them.

"Hold still so I can take a look at you, okay?" Carter spoke calmly to the child, who lay flat on his back on the top of the elevator car, his little arms and legs sprawled around him.

Abby watched as Carter kneeled down next to him. She could see the tiny boy's chest rise and fall anxiously.

"Abby, bring me a neck brace and a backboard please," he said to her quietly so as not to upset the little child more. While he waited, Carter rested his hand on the boy's head.

Abby returned with the materials and passed them down into the shaft. And just as Carter stood to grab them, the elevator car suddenly gave way beneath him and dropped another foot or two, sending Carter to his knees and causing the little boy to fidget wildly in fear.

"John!" Abby yelled and kneeled over the hole.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Carter responded once the car settled. "Abby, we've got to get him out of here."

Carter struggled to stabilize the boy's neck and secure him to the board, but the scared little child was thrashing too hard.

"Hey, you've got to stay still for me!" Carter was nervous and impatient and sounded fierce.

Abby swung her legs over the hole and looked down at them: "Ssssshhhh. It's okay," she said to the boy.

The child looked up at her. She smiled back at him sweetly.

"Everything's going to be okay. You're going to be fine. John's trying to help you."

He began to calm down.

"That's a good boy," she said.

He stared up at her, and his face became tranquil.

Once the child was secured, Carter stood up slowly and then gingerly lifted the board over his head with all his strength. Abby grabbed it and guided it to the opening, and they slid the child out of the elevator shaft. She reached her hand down to help Carter out.

"No, I can do it," he said. "Hurry and get a gurney."

Abby ran to get one, while Carter climbed out. They wheeled the boy into Exam 3 and made room for him in the space between their beds. Fully masked, gloved, and gowned, they removed the stiff backboard from behind the boy. But before Carter examined him, he turned his attention once again to Abby.

"Let me see your head. Are you okay?"

"You tell me."

He gently parted her hair with his fingers to examine her head while he presented the results of his lab findings: "Salmonellosis."

"You saw salmonella? I have food poisoning?" Abby asked, surprised.

"I'm thinking it must have been the—"

"—chicken salad," she sang with him in unison.

"It could have been bad mayonnaise or undercooked chicken," he theorized as he pressed the area around her scraped head. "More likely, it was under-refrigerated for hours—that useless emergency generator."

He looked at her eyes, pulled down her lower lids, and continued his diagnosis: "You had a fairly high concentration in your blood. That means your digestive tract must have been overwhelmed with the bacteria, but I can only confirm that with a stool sample . . ."

"Never mind, I'll take your word for it. But could food poisoning make me so sick?"

He moved his hands down to her jaw and neck and felt some more. "Salmonella gives you fever, headache, abdominal cramps. So your body tries to get rid of it—that's the vomiting and diarrhea. In a bad case—bloody stool. It's all part of it."

"Bleccchhh. OK, I get it."

He grabbed his stethoscope, pulled her toward him, and placed it against her back this time. She leaned comfortably against his chest and almost forgot about the little boy in the room.

"You probably purged most of it from your body. That's why you're feeling a little better. We should continue to replace your fluids. You'll feel like yourself again in a couple of days—maybe even a couple of hours, depending upon how much you got out of your system."

Satisfied with his quick exam, Carter stood her up straight again, put his hand under her chin, and looked deep in her eyes. "You're going to be okay."

"Thanks," she said, gazing back at him.

"You had me worried." He ran the knuckle of his index finger tenderly up and down her masked cheek and then turned his attention to the child.

Abby stopped to steady herself. She was relieved that he did not find the smallpox virus in her blood. As usual, his tenderness made her stomach tingle, but she quickly pulled herself together to help him with the boy.

Carter checked him from head to toe, while Abby found some animal stickers in a drawer. She placed a zebra on the back of the child's hand and stuck a giraffe on his nose. He smiled. She tickled him under his chin, and he squirmed with delight and tickled her back when she leaned down to him. And when Carter was just about finished, she ran her fingers through the little boy's hair, kissed him on the forehead through her mask, and said, "You're a brave boy." And with that, he put his thumb in his mouth, began to suck contentedly, and fell asleep.

Carter and Abby lifted the bars on the narrow bed and walked to the Admit Desk together.

"He's fine," Carter said.

"How did he get here? And how are we going to get him out of here?" Abby picked up the telephone by the Admit Desk and shook her head. "Still nothing," she reported. She flipped through the rack of charts and pulled one out. "Hey, here's his chart. Maybe they'll be something . . ."

Carter took it from her and began to read: _"Unattended John Doe, approx. 4 years, aphonic, no sign of trauma, afebrile, normal vitals—_That's it. That's as far as Deb got when all hell broke loose. I pulled her outside to meet the ambulances from that bus accident." He sighed and shook his head, blaming himself once again for his unfortunate judgment.

Abby touched his arm to reassure him, but he wasn't in the mood for sympathy. Action made him feel better.

"Now, as for _you_ . . . Back in bed," he ordered her.

Abby didn't argue with him. She let him reinsert her I.V. and wash the cut on her head, which was superficial and didn't require sutures. And while Abby and their little guest rested, Carter went to scrounge for supplies.

He returned a little while later just as dusk fell. He brought back canned fruit, juices, and soups that they could use in the microwave in the lounge. Coffee and tea, too. He found the smallest scrub shirt he could in the linen supply closet—and noticed that their little guest had taken up residence in a rather carefully constructed pile of pillowcases on the bottom shelf.

Abby was feeling much better, and Carter removed her I.V. Together, they woke the sleepy little boy and bathed him in the deep sink in Trauma 1. In truth, Abby bathed him while Carter blew up surgical gloves into fancy balloons, much to the child's delight. Each time Carter tossed him a glove balloon, the little boy would splash and bounce, and water would overflow the sink.

"Carter! I'm getting soaked here! Cut it out!"

But in an unchivalrous conspiracy, the boys continued their game until there was as much water on Abby as there was on the child—and on the floor for that matter.

The roommates dined at the table in the lounge on chicken noodle soup and crackers with a side order of crayons and paper—just to keep the tiny boy settled, since Carter and Abby could not sit too close to him once they removed their masks to eat. Abby didn't get more than a few spoonfuls down, but it was enough to make her feel better.

Carter cleaned up the dining area, while Abby and the boy went to wash out his clothes. The little boy sat on the counter in his oversized green scrub "gown" and handed her one piece of his tiny wardrobe at a time until they all lay drip-drying on a makeshift clothesline of catheter tubing.

They met Carter back in their suite in Exam 3 and prepared to retire. Carter and Abby laid the boy on the middle of the three beds in the room. But as with any four-year-old, bedtime made him disagreeable, and he fought them.

"Okay, okay." Abby picked him up.

"Don't forget your mask," Carter reminded.

She sat with the child on a chair near Carter's bed. The tiny boy lay against her with one leg on each side of her. He rested his head on her chest and lifted his thumb to his mouth. Carter sat on his bed and watched Abby kiss the boy on the head through her masked lips and run her gloved hand over his back. Their eyes met. She couldn't read the expression on Carter's face, but it was so intense that she needed to look away.

Carter relaxed on his bed and became engrossed in the _New England Journal of Medicine_. When Abby was sure he wasn't looking, she took off one glove and caressed the soft baby skin on the sole of the little boy's foot. The child in her arms looked up at her, broke the suction of his suck, and a big smile appeared around his wet thumb.

"John?" she said quietly a little while later. She tried to get Carter's attention as she tilted her head toward the little boy's face, which was now hidden from her view. Carter nodded, indicating the boy was indeed asleep. He got up and lifted him from her arms and placed him on the bed between theirs. They leaned over him from opposite sides of the railing.

"Poor little guy," Carter said and pulled a blanket over him. They said good-night to each other and retired to their beds.

Abby awoke about 3 a.m. to check on the boy. She panicked for a moment when she saw his bedrail down and the mattress empty, until she looked over at Carter and saw the two men lying side by side, each on their back, each with their head tilted to the left, each with their arms folded over their tummies—left hand over right. The sight of them made her smile.

She tiptoed over and ran her fingers affectionately through the little boy's hair. Then she moved around to Carter's side and watched him sleep for several minutes, all the while thinking about what he'd said about them loving each other. She moved his hair off his forehead and kissed him in the empty space she made. In the quiet of the night, Abby admitted to herself that she was indeed falling in love with him. And in the safety of the darkness, she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be his girlfriend, go home with him after work, spend lazy weekends with him on her sofa, and make love with him.

She didn't mean to wake him, but his eyes fluttered open. And when he saw her there, his hand instinctively reached for her forehead.

"Are you okay?" Carter asked.

"I'm better, but you have company," she said nodding toward the sleeping child at his side.

Carter slid off the bed and picked him up.

"He got up about one o'clock. I didn't want him to wake you."

He laid the child once more on the center bed and raised the rails. When he turned to go back to bed, Abby was right behind him, and they were face to face.

"Listen," she said, "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"For taking care of me. For risking yourself to find out what was wrong with me."

He smiled modestly.

"Well, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it," she said.

Abby moved back toward her bed, but before she could get past him, Carter reached down and took her hand and pulled her back in front of him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do; he just knew he didn't want the moment to end. She stared at the floor until he lifted her face toward him and said, "You're welcome."

Without thinking, she reached up on her tiptoes, pulled away his mask, and kissed him on the mouth. Before she could break away, he had his hand in her hair and his other arm around her. They kissed for several minutes and finally broke from their embrace just as the tiny boy stirred restlessly.

Though deep in sleep, a fearsome dream had overtaken him, and the little boy's arms and legs stiffened and he pounded his fists on the mattress. Carter reached over and placed his flat hand soothingly on the boy's belly.

"It's okay, Little Guy."

The child woke up suddenly, his little chest heaving, as if he'd been running hard and fast. Abby grabbed her mask and gloves and leaned close to him.

"Sssshhhh, it's too late for you to be awake. Go back to sleep." The sight of her mesmerized the tiny boy, and he gazed at her with a hypnotic stare. His breathing slowed, his thumb went to his mouth, and with his other hand he stroked her hair and her face over and over again until his eyelids got heavy, his little thumb fell from his mouth, and he went back to sleep.

Carter was a little envious at how tenderly the little boy touched Abby and how affectionately she responded. He couldn't describe the feeling he had watching her comfort the child, but it was powerful.

Carter awoke before either of them that morning. As he swung his legs over the side of his bed, the Little Guy sat up suddenly. He put his tiny index finger to his lips, commanding Carter to be silent so as not to wake Abby. He raised both his arms in the air as a signal for Carter to pick him up. Carter put on his mask and gloves and carried him into the lounge.

He sat the boy at the table with crayons and paper and heated some water. With it, Carter prepared some coffee for himself and some instant oatmeal for both of them. And when they finished, he prepared breakfast in bed for Abby.

He made her oatmeal and a fruit cup and some tea and set them on a tray. And as he prepared to lift it and bring it to her, the Little Guy held out his crayon masterpiece to Carter.

"Is that for me?"

The boy snatched it away, shook his head emphatically, and held the paper behind his back.

"No?"

The Little Guy pointed instead down the hall toward Exam 3.

"It's for Abby? It's a present for Abby?"

He nodded.

"How come?"

The boy pointed to the spot on his arm where he saw Abby's I.V. tubes the day before. He made a pained face.

"Because she was sick?"

He nodded yes, and then he pointed to his own face and batted his eyelashes femininely, which made Carter laugh out loud.

". . . and she's pretty, huh?"

He nodded again and looked down to put some last-minute touches on his drawing.

"She sure is," Carter agreed. "Okay. Put it on the tray, and let's go."

As they entered the room where Abby lay sleeping, the tiny boy tugged on Carter's pant leg to get his attention. He pulled his wet thumb from his mouth and used it to point to himself.

"You want to wake her?"

He nodded.

"Okay, go ahead."

He jumped up on the bed and caressed her face with his hand—damp thumb and all.

She opened her eyes.

"Surprise!" Carter said.

The boy clapped his hands enthusiastically.

"What's this?" she said, grabbing her mask.

"Breakfast in bed."

Carter put the tray on a cart next to her bed, and the Little Guy snatched the crayon drawing and forced it toward her face.

"Is this for me?"

He nodded and pointed to himself.

"You made this? It's beautiful, thank you."

The sweet little thing was bursting with pride.

Carter picked him up from her bed, sat down himself, and put the little boy on his lap. If she didn't know any better, she'd say Carter seemed a bit jealous.

"Somebody here has a really big crush on you," he said. And with that, he leaned over, slipped her mask down, and kissed her good morning—a little longer and a little more sensually than she'd expect with a child in his lap.

"And the kid likes you, too," he joked when he pulled his lips away from her.

She was feeling better and was charmed by the both of them. She sipped the tea and nibbled at the food until the Little Guy suddenly wriggled out of Carter's lap and ran over to the door. He reached up with his tiny hands and grabbed the knob, tugging at it with all his might. He looked to Carter for help and pointed outside.

"Okay, calm down. What is it?" Carter opened the door.

The child stepped out into the hall and pointed to his ear.

"I hear it. It's the phone!"

Carter ran down the hall, and as he got closer to the Admit Desk, the ringing grew louder. Abby got out of bed, took the little boy's hand, and followed Carter.

"Kerry!" they heard Carter say. He was never so happy to hear Weaver's voice. Abby kept the little boy quiet while she listened to Carter's side of the conversation.

"Yes, it's been out since the first night . . . Uh, huh . . . We're okay now, but we had a couple of close calls . . . Well, Abby's been sick, for one . . . Febrile, nauseated times six or seven . . . Nope, no pustules—it's salmonella . . . How do I know for sure? Long story . . . Yeah . . . Listen, Kerry, you won't believe this—they left a _kid_ in here with us . . . No, I'm not . . . About four . . . Pretty sure he's Chen's John Doe . . . Aphonic, but I don't see any abnormality of the larynx . . . Look, Kerry, you have to help us get him out of here. Somebody must be looking for him . . . Nope, we're masked and gloved . . . Okay, thanks."

"She's going to get to the bottom of it and call us back," he reported. "In the meantime, I think it's time we dress this young man and teach him the finer points of skateboarding."

"How about _I_ dress him, and _you_ can handle the skateboarding, Brian Boitano." She picked him up and started walking down the hall.

"Fine, except Brian Boitano is an _ice_ skater," he called after her.

"Whatever."

Abby dressed the boy in the now-clean clothes he was wearing when they found him. When she and the child emerged from the room for his skateboarding lesson, Carter was already back on the phone with Dr. Weaver. Abby picked the boy up and rubbed his back as she listened to Carter speak. The Little Guy rested his head against her shoulder, and his thumb went to his mouth.

"_Carter, you're not going to believe this, but there is no missing persons out on a four-year-old, and Children's Services says they're not missing one."_

"What . . . ?" Carter was dumbfounded, but he spoke softly so as not to alarm the child—or Abby.

"_It looks like he's just fallen through the cracks somehow. But they've got a plan to take him off your hands . . ."_

"Who? Uhhhh . . . " He turned his back to them, and that caught Abby's attention. "Where will they take him?"

"_Department of Children's Services. They'll start with a County facility and get him into a foster home by evening—tomorrow the latest. That's all I can tell you right now."_

"How?"

"_They gave me specific instructions. Listen carefully and do exactly as I say, okay? A social worker will arrive accompanied by the police at the main waiting area of the ER. Only the police are allowed to remove the quarantine tape. Don't go near the doors. You are to leave the child within 15 feet of the entrance—the social worker cannot penetrate beyond that. You and Abby are to stay at least 20 feet away from the spot. After they retrieve him, the police will tape up the doors for the rest of your quarantine period."_

"When?"

"_Thirty minutes."_

"Thir—!" He stopped when he realized Abby and the boy were right behind him. He turned, and his eyes met hers. Abby felt a brick in her stomach.

"Okay, Kerry. Thanks."

When the Little Guy saw Carter hang up the phone, he lifted his head from Abby's shoulder and arched his body toward him with outstretched arms in anticipation of his skateboarding lesson. Carter pulled his mask over his face, took him from her, and headed toward the lounge.

"How about you sit and play with the crayons for few minutes while I talk to Abby, okay? And then I'll take you for a ride on the skateboard."

The Little Guy watched as Carter took Abby's hand and walked over by the coffee maker. He filled her in on the plan, rubbing her hand the whole time he spoke. She fought the impulse to show any emotion on her face, knowing the child was watching them. And when he finished, they lifted their masks and walked over to the table to tell him.

"Guess what, Little Guy?" Carter began. "After your skateboard lesson, some nice people are going to come here and take you to a place where you can play with other kids."

The boy looked at them blankly and then continued coloring.

Abby added: "And after that, they're going to bring you to a family that's going to take care of you for a while, okay?"

The tiny boy crawled off the chair, took Carter's hand, and tugged at him.

"I guess it's skateboard time," Carter said. The boy looked back at Abby, and with his free hand, he waved at her to come watch them.

"He didn't even react," Abby said when she got close enough to Carter.

"He doesn't _know_ enough to react. He so little. He's probably been dragged from foster home to foster home all his life."

For several minutes, Carter held the boy on the skateboard and escorted him up and down the corridor. Abby removed her gloves, gown, and mask and sat down on the floor to watch them. Her mood grew more somber with each passing minute, but she clapped her hands and yelled "hurray!" every time they passed her.

On their last pass, they went as far as the waiting room, and that's when Carter saw the social worker pulling up with the police.

"I guess it's time to go, Little Guy," he said.

The tiny boy jumped off the skateboard, ran down the hall past Abby and over to where she put her mask, gloves, and gown. He grabbed them and pushed them at her. He wanted Abby to hold him at that moment, and he had learned in their short time together that she couldn't unless she was covered.

The bittersweet gesture moved her, and she slipped the garments on, grateful that the mask would cover her quivering lower lip.

A police officer cut the tape on the outer doors of the hospital and opened them for the social worker. Carter signaled to the tall woman in her fifties to wait until the boy was in position. He headed over to Abby, who was kneeling in front of the child.

"Bye-bye, my big boy," Abby said to him. The Little Guy pulled down her mask and kissed her on the cheek. It was that "little boy" kiss—just wet lips against face. He didn't know enough yet to purse his lips.

"Abby, careful," Carter said. He meant to warn her about her mask, but somehow he was more worried about her heart.

She put her arms around the boy and bit her lower lip hard to keep from crying.

The social worker cleared her throat and pointed to her wristwatch to signal she was on a schedule.

"Come on, Little Guy," Carter picked him up and set him down approximately 15 feet from the door. "You know, you're one of the best skateboarders I've ever seen."

The child smiled proudly. Carter reached down and rubbed his hair. "It'll be okay."

The Little Guy watched as Carter stepped back the obligatory 20 feet. The social worker entered and picked up the child. He instinctively put his thumb in his mouth and began sucking furiously. But just before the double doors opened to the outside, the Little Guy began wriggling forcefully until he broke loose from the woman's arms. He ran back into the ER. Carter tried to catch him and lost his balance, but Abby saw he was heading right for her and kneeled down.

She tried to stay stone-faced, but the lump in her throat was now painful. She expected him to hug her, and she opened her arms to accept him. Instead, the child stopped in front of her, took her now-unmasked face in his tiny hands, and pressed her cheeks hard until her lips made a funny face.

And then he spoke two words: "Abby. Mine."

It was too much for Abby. Now it was she who couldn't speak. She put her hands on his round baby belly and kissed his forehead just as Carter walked over.

Still fully gloved and masked, he picked up the boy, signaled the social worker to step back, and gently put him again on the retrieval spot. This time, he kneeled down to him.

"Don't worry, Little Guy. I'll take care of Abby, and you can visit her here anytime, okay?"

Their Gentleman's Agreement sealed, the boy gripped Carter around the neck and clung there, until Carter felt a searing pain in his gut that he couldn't describe.

The Little Guy left in the arms of the social worker, his thumb securely in his mouth. He didn't cry, and in fact, he looked back and smiled at them.

As the police taped up the doors again, Carter walked over to Abby and helped her up. She slipped her arms around his waist, and he kissed the top of her head.

"Carter, he—"

"I heard him."

"I don't understand. If he can speak, why doesn't he?"

"Do you remember in med school reading about a condition called 'selective mutism' or 'elective mutism'—something like that?"

She shook her head "no," but it felt surprisingly good that he acknowledged her stint in medical school.

"It's when children can't talk for psychological reasons—usually anxiety. I think that kid's been alone for a long time. He probably never had anybody to listen to him."

They both felt sad, but neither knew if it was because they pitied the boy—or felt a little like him.

"You were great with him," Carter said and let her go. "You should think about having kids." And he started walking down the hall.

He didn't know it, but his comment touched a raw nerve in her, and she whispered to herself: _"Some people aren't meant to be mothers."_

From halfway down the hall, he called to her. "Come on, let's raid the cafeteria and see if we can find something to eat that won't kill us."

"Sorry, I'll pass," she said and watched him walk away. Once again, she was aware of how deeply she was falling in love with him. She knew Carter deserved someone who could give him everything he wanted—and that probably included children, she thought. But Abby was too frightened to do that, and so her heart started to ache.

Carter returned a while later and didn't know how to interpret the unexplained distance he suddenly felt from Abby, and so he grew cautious and withdrew from her. They were both prisoners all right—but not of the hospital. He was of prisoner of his insecurities, she of her fears. And so instead of sharing their concerns for the little boy, instead of celebrating her health, instead of continuing to get to know each other's minds—and bodies—they retreated into their own cells, and the closeness faded away.

For the rest of the afternoon, they kept each other company like polite strangers. Carter read mostly, and Abby took the opportunity to restock the supply shelves.

Night had fallen when she moved over to sit in chairs—it was the only place in the ER where she could peek at the outside world. She sat sideways with one leg spread across several chairs and gazed through the glass criss-crossed with yellow police tape. He came up behind her.

"You look like you're about to make a break for it."

She half smiled and moved her leg so he could sit next to her. Actually, she had no real desire to leave—nowhere in particular to go—nowhere she'd rather be.

"I was looking for you before," he said.

"I was working."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks."

"Worried about him?" Carter asked, assuming her melancholy mood was about the Little Guy.

"Sad for him."

"He sort of fell in love with you." He looked away and mumbled sadly, "Can't say I blame him."

"I wouldn't call it 'falling in love.'"

"I would—not in a grown-up way, but in a four-year-old way, he did. I've seen that look before."

She didn't know how to respond.

"Do you ever think about having kids?" he asked her.

_Do I think about having kids?_ She thought about it all the time, but she worried about bringing another Maggie into the world. She wondered why she never knew her ex-husband Richard wanted children. She questioned every day the decision to end her own pregnancy years before. She feared she'd never be able to conceive again, and if she did, she wondered if terror would force her to end it once more. _Do I think about having kids?_

"Not much," she answered.

And so their dance continued.

"I thought you might want to see this." He handed her a drawing.

"Hey, for a doctor, you're pretty good with a crayon."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. No, I found it in the lounge."

She stared at it for a long time until the lump in her throat grew again, and only whispers could squeeze by it.

"Carter, how could that sweet baby not have a fam—"

He put his arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder until she could speak without choking. And when she could, she summoned the courage to say something that had been on her mind.

"Remember what you said yesterday?" she asked.

"About what?"

"You know. That thing about . . . us."

"About us?"

"About us being—"

He decided to help her out.

"—in love?" he finished.

"Yeah, that."

"What about it?" he asked.

"What if there were things that you didn't know about me?"

"There are probably plenty of things we don't about each other." He looked down at her. "I just want the chance to find out, you know?"

"Me, too," she said nervously and nestled her head against his neck. "Me, too."

And, thankfully, the walls came tumbling down once more.

Dirty and uncomfortable from heat and stress, they went upstairs separately to the in-patient area and each scouted their own room where they could remove their clothes, hand-wash them, and take a long, hot shower. Carter dried himself with a towel and came downstairs with it wrapped around his waist, intending to get new scrubs.

Abby, having forgotten to bring a towel, wrapped herself in a sheet from a patient bed and slowly walked downstairs leaving puddles on the hard floor.

He turned around and she was there. Her hair was sleek and wet, and her soaking body quickly saturated the thin cotton sheet, turning it transparent and making it cling to her every curve. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

"I forgot a towel. I'm dripping a little bit—don't slip," she cautioned.

_Slip? He couldn't breathe._

Like a magnet, Carter was drawn to her, and he reached out his hand. Abby turned out the light on the wall and slowly wound her fingers in his. He pulled her to him and leaned down to kiss her. Just his towel and her sheet separated them, and in an instant they were gone. He leaned down to place his lips on the most tender spot on her neck. Her wet, naked body trembled against him.

"Are you cold?" he asked her.

"A little," she answered, though she shivered as much from excitement and nervousness.

"Come here."

He sat on one of the beds in the room, slid over to make room for her, and she slipped in, too. He covered them both with a sheet and then covered her body with his. As he kissed her, she molded herself to him, paying particular attention to all the parts of him that craved her the most. She let his fingertips explore every inch of her—even the parts that made her gasp. And when his fingers knew her better, he let his lips take over. For her, it was soothing, and soon her nerves turned into relaxation, and her relaxation turned into rapture, and her rapture into peace, and her peace turned into . . . _sleep_.

"Abby," he whispered. "Hey," he nudged her nose with his. But she turned away from him and drifted even deeper. Though Abby won the war with the bacteria inside her, she was clearly battle-weary. Desire made him want to nudge her awake; the urgent need for her tempted him. But he didn't. He kissed her neck and cocooned her naked body in his arms and legs.

"Abby, you're killing me, you know that?" he teased while stroking her hair. But he knew from her deep, rhythmic breathing that she couldn't hear him. Nevertheless, his warm breath in her ear stirred her. She woke briefly, turned toward him, and snuggled under his chin.

"I'm sorry. I'm just so tired," she said, her eyes still closed.

He kissed the bridge of her nose and reached around and ran his fingers gently up and down her spine. "It's okay. I've waited two years, I can wait a little longer." He stared down at her for a long moment, and though she couldn't hear him, he whispered, "By the way . . . I love you." And he closed his eyes as well.

They slept in each other's arms that night with a peace that they hadn't known since . . . well, that they'd _never_ known before.

Carter woke up before Abby and was sitting in the chair finishing the _New England Journal_ when her eyes opened.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked.

"What's there to do?" she yawned. "Count foley catheters?'

"Nope."

"Fold bandages?"

"Nope."

"Then what?"

"Follow me."

She threw a sheet around herself, and he took her hand.

"I thought we'd go to the beach," he suggested.

"Oh, no. This isn't where you set up a pretend beach because we can't go outside, is it?"

"_Pretend?_" he feigned insult.

"Oh brother, it is." She covered her eyes, mocking him, and followed him reluctantly.

"Where are your clothes?" she asked.

"We're going to the beach."

"You're in your underwear."

"These are my swim trunks."

"Underweeeear," she sang.

"Truuuuunks," he sang back, mimicking her.

When they arrived at the "beach" near the Admit Desk, he sat on one of two towels he had positioned on the floor.

"You look like you need someone to rub sunscreen on you." He held up a plastic bottle.

"That's calamine lotion," she pointed out.

"When I rub it on, you won't notice."

"Except that I'll be _pink_."

"Yeah, but you won't itch," he joked.

"What's that?" She pointed to a bucket of water.

"That's Lake Michigan."

"It's a bucket of water."

"It's the lake," he insisted.

He rested his sunglasses on the edge of his nose, flipped on a giant overhead surgical lamp, and lay back on the towel.

"Come on. Sit in the sun with me. You look like you need a tan."

"Oh yeah? Well, you look like you need a swim!"

And with that, Abby lifted Lake Michigan and tossed it over his head, soaking every inch of him.

"Are you crazy?" He jumped up and shouted at her. "That's not funny!"

"Yes it is!" Now Abby laughed until her side hurt.

Anyone watching them would have thought they were 12 years old . . .

_**Epilogue**_

_After four more days—four days filled with the excitement of long-anticipated sex mixed with the apprehension of new love—an official from the CDC visited and declared John Carter and Abigail Lockhart free of disease. The smallpox or smallpox-like infection that took the lives of young Brie and Adam was filed as a medical anomaly and left as a test case for the future. _

_Once released from quarantine, Carter and Abby checked on the Little Guy and learned he was placed in a foster home—one of the best, as ensured by Carter's godfather, their congressman. The boy was with a young couple from Winnetka who had a sweet 7-year-old daughter with Down's Syndrome. The Little Guy grew to love and protect her. He began to speak and soon was helping his speech-challenged foster sister to communicate, too. _

_Once freed, Carter and Abby struggled to grow from best friends to boyfriend and girlfriend. For months after their imprisonment, Carter kept the Little Guy's crayon drawing—the one he found in the lounge—on the inside of his locker as a reminder of their challenges and their hopes. It showed stick figures of a man and woman, their faces masked from each other, their expressions invisible. But their hands were connected—as were their hearts—as only a child could see._

_THE END_


End file.
